Benedict meets Sherlock
by Lock Lokidottir
Summary: Done with Trufflehead for Benedicts 36th birthday! : Benedict comes home to find Sherlock and John in his flat, just after Richenbach. Chaos ensures as Ben prods where it is needed, but not wanted. Very fluffy Johnlock! Please rate and review, I love it!


Benedict Cumberbatch (or Ben/Benny to his friends) was sitting in his very nice, very modern apartment which overlooked London.

Benny always liked to sit and watch the world go by. In fact, he had insisted on buying an apartment with at least one window: the flat in which he currently resided had a huge wall which was made entirely of glass which glittered in the afternoon sun. The windows had a huge ledge, much too big but for him it was just right to perch on. Ben could either face the apartment, which was large with no doors, every room interlinking. The sofa, seats and shaggy rug were all blood red, and everything else was a very neutral black and white (save for the occasional purple painting dotted about). Or, as Benedict much preferred, he could face outside and watch all the little people of London go around their day to day lives without knowing he was watching, silent and still.

Benny watched cars ghosted around London, never seeing nor noticing anyone or anything; in fact, the cabbie who had just dropped him home after filming series three of _Sherlock_ hadn't even noticed who he was.

In a way, Ben was grateful. This fame lark wasn't too much to deal with, but it did get tiring after a while_. It __seems_, he thought,_ that__ we can never give up longing and wishing while we are still alive. There are certain things we feel to be beautiful and good, and we must hunger for them__, because we don't__ have that luxury__ in death__._

For example, the fan mail was kind of creepy, but it _could _be classed as a luxury if you looked on the bright side- Benedict had received virtually everything from pearl necklaces to racy knickers with a note attached (_Hope you have fun with John!)_. he was all polite, posh school boy like, writing little _thank you's_ back in his neatest handwriting to the fan mail which had a return address. It was all a bit of fun really; The fans gave him a laugh, no doubt, and in turn that gave him a laugh on set. Rupert and Mark thought it was hilarious, though Martin and his wife, it is to be said, were somewhat _less_ pleased.

Ben was practically dead on his feet. He rested a curly head to the window, and started to doze, before a loud knock rang through the flat, jerking him out of his sleep.

Grumbling and rubbing his eyes, Benedict crossed the apartment and was met with a very surprising sight indeed.

Opening the door, he found _himself _looking back.

Both men stood there for a moment, wondering what to do. The-other-Ben looked back with an air of arrogance. Benedict noted that the cheekbones were much sharper on the other man than they were on him, his neck was in a choke hold with a dark blue scarf and his leaner frame was adorned with a massive swirling coat.

Sherlock Holmes was standing in the doorway.

'…' was all Sherlock said. That's right, nothing at all was said by the great (and fictional) detective. Benedict Cumberbatch had succeeded in doing what John, the Met and almost the entire population had been trying to do for years; he had shut Sherlock Holmes up.

For a little while.

Great coat swirling like a horrifically overgrown bat, Sherlock walked into the little apartment and started to touch things. The concentrated face and furrowed brow meant one thing Benedict knew all too well- Sherlock was deducting.

'You have a half sister, but no full brothers or sisters. You've lived with a women in this apartment, but I don't think she lives here anymore-' Benedict cringed as he remembered Olivia, but Sherlock ploughed on regardless. '-and you still harbour feelings for her, because you still kept the girlish set out- but you're not gay, look at you. Businessman? Wait, no-' Sherlock held up a hand as Ben was about to correct him. 'The facial expressions? The manicured hands? You're an actor.'

Benedict blinked slowly, his reaction to surprise before he shot back: 'And you're fictional.'

'I think an elementary child could plainly see that I am not. Have we met?'

'I think we're closer than you think.' Benny cleared his throat. Something was off, and to be honest, the steely grey gaze of the detective wasn't really helping. So he went with the way he was taught in school, and leaned forward to grasp the other man's hand. 'I'm Benedict Cumberbatch. It's a… delight to meet you.'

'Sherlock' snorted. ''Benedict Cumberbatch?' What kind of name is that? We're your parents playing _Scrabble _when they named you-?'

'Sherlock! Don't be rude!'

That didn't come from the detective (_why and earth am I referring to him as a bloody __**detective?**_ Ben asked himself. _He's fictional, for God's sake!) _

The voice came from the side of Sherlock, and because of both men's great heights they had to look down.

'Martin?' Benedict asked, somewhat confused. 'What're you doing here?'

Martin turned around, this blonde hair sticking up at unusual angles as his head swung. He was dressed in a small green jacket and baggy shell bottoms. It was laughable, really, but Ben still couldn't work out how he was here, but also across from him.

'For God's sake, John-!'

'John?' Ben cut across before this became a big argument indeed. He started to laugh. 'Very good, Martin.' Benedict wasn't arrogant enough to clap his hands in sarcastic-ness, but he was close. He smiled at Sherlock and 'John's' confused faces.

'What do you think is wrong with him?'

'Dunno. Might've lost it, for all we know-'

'Guys! You are fictional characters!'

Sherlock and John looked at Ben like he had lost it. Ben reminded himself that he was, in fact, the one _seeing _BBC's _Sherlock _characters in his living room, which quickly helped grow the former thought.

'Sir Arthur Conan Doyle made you up. In the Victorian ages. You were one of the best crime books in Britain- and people have been making your adventures into films, and books and series. But you are not real.'

There was a pause. Sherlock suddenly snorted, making Benedict and John scowl.

'We are real,' Sherlock replied, straightening the teal scarf. 'We were sent by Lestrade to investigate a murder.'

'Murder?'

'Yes. Young woman died just outside your flat, murder got away- mind if we use the balcony?'

'Balcony?'

Sherlock scowled at the somewhat surprised (so therefore slow) man in front of him. 'You really must stop repeating the last word of what I say.'

'Sorry. But I don't have a balcony-'

'So can we use the window, then?' Chirped John, straightening out his frame and trying to make himself appear taller. It didn't really work.

When Benedict hesitated, John raised his eyebrows and lowered his chin. Sherlock looked at him, seemingly lost in thoughts, before snapping out of it. Ben sighed and let them through.

* * *

They were in the flat quite a long time. Ben was nice enough to bring both men tea- John thanked him (from the both of them) and Sherlock, somewhat unsurprisingly, ignored the kind gesture.

It became obvious to Ben that the larger, emotionally stunted man had done something to upset the army doctor. Benedict no longer wants the negative atmosphere in the flat, so he places his arms on his hips bossily, and sighs.

Both men look up; Sherlock looks bored and unimpressed, and John (_Martin!) _looks at him quizzically, his eyes raised from his position on the floor.

Benedict throws his hands up in the air. 'What's wrong with you two?'

Both men's face harden. Sherlock looks somewhat anxious as he glances at John, who's face is kept neutral. Ben knows he's hit a bad spot when he remembers last season's finale.

'Oh, so this is about Richenbach?'

Benedict hears a hiss from Sherlock and nothing from John. This worries him slightly; Sherlock looks like he's about to punch him.

After a pause, John turns to Sherlock and whispers, 'Three years. Three years I thought you were dead.'

Oh. _Oh. _So Sherlock hadn't told John yet, unlike Canon _Sherlock. _This was going to be fun.

'Three years I thought you had died. No you come back, we go on to investigate again and everything is back to normal.'

Ben switched his therapist mode on. 'So you don't want it to be normal?'

'I do!' John suddenly dropped his façade, gripping at his hair. 'I want it to be how it _used _to be, not now!'

Sherlock looked emotionless. The goddamn machine. 'How is now different? I am still Sherlock, you are still John and this man here is still a moron.'

'No. We used to talk, we used to get into the flat and collapse from exhaustion and chatter until the early hours and drink tea. We talked about nothing, not really; cases, people and London in general. Who we were, who we used to be.' John turns to look more at Benedict. 'Now, we sit in silence! Nothing is said apart from the 'G'night' when one of use gives in and goes to bed, but I'm lucky if we even do that!'

'What do you want me to say?' Snapped Sherlock, his eyes flashing.

'Anything!' John howled back. Sherlock looked as blank as ever, and so Benedict gave John a bit of a prod. 'Help him out, John.'

'I want you to say it on your own accord; I don't want to _make_ you say it.'

The room is in silence.

It is intimate, sort of. Well, intimate enough to make Ben feel awkward and try and blend into the wall.

Sherlock was locking eyes with John, no man blinking, both drawn up to their full height. Sherlock suddenly blurted something out that made the other man blush.

'I love you, John.'

The room was in silence once again, but it wasn't harsh or sharp; it was a ringing sort of silence as both men tried to process the sentence that still hung in the air.

Sherlock ploughed on. 'And I'm so sorry for Richenbach- I owe you a thousand apologies. Even then, that wouldn't be enough. I only realised that three things mean the world to me, only when I was away; you, London and work. You come first. You always have, and always will. Because, John, I love you.'

John was crying, and Benedict felt so touched to be apart of emotions so primal and raw. It was a very rare thing now to witness, what with cheap booze, fast cars and fast women. All men broke out into a smile.

John wiped his eyes on his sleeve before he shakily whispered, 'You massive prat… I love you too.'

* * *

Benedict woke with a start. He sleepily glanced out of the window, and blinked the sleep out of his eyes and wiped the sleep from his eyes.

He had fallen asleep on the red sofa. Sherlock in his flat, John being angry and the unexpected proclamation of love had all been a dream, brought on by some unknown authors story.

Benedict didn't know her name, only her flowery orange profile picture. It was nice, and recommended to him by Mark, who was totally into this Johnlock thing. It had apparently taken hours of convincing him to not make season three completely non-canon to the books. Mark had not been pleased, but at least it wouldn't be awkward for him and Martin. (Martin didn't really approve of the whole Johnlock, universe, but could tolerate it to an extent.)

Benedict smiled to himself as he got up to stretch. He located pen and paper and wrote it down; as he did, he smiled to himself.

He wondered what Martin and the Cast was going to think of it.


End file.
